4. Evangeline
EVANGELINE
RIP to my dignity, my sanity, and my credit score.
Luca didn’t pay the moving fee in advance. And the movers tacked on an extra one hundred and sixty dollars to the base fee because of the time required to safely get my couch into the garage. Then they made sure to place emphasis on how little they make without tips.
The stress and decision fatigue of the morning had gotten to me by then, and against my better judgment, I blurted out “add fifty dollars for each of you.”
They ran my card three times, and every time it was declined. Eventually, I had them split the payment between two cards.
At first, I was annoyed. My card should have been accepted with no issue. That emotion, though, gave way to mortification as I recalled all the expenses I paid for in Bahrain a few weeks ago.
So I split six hundred and sixty dollars between two credit cards, already knowing it will take months to pay them off.
Maybe I could run a special on my membership site to help move the process along.
Or I could get a few friends to come over and help me crank out a big batch of products for a flash sale.
But my best friend Mia and her older sister Shelby are both Formula 1 drivers. They’re leaving soon, and though I’ve spent the last several months planning to travel the world along with them and Luca, I’m being left behind.
Eyes closed, I search for another solution.
But my brain is mushy and the Texas sun is too bright.
I can’t do this. I’m not cut out to be an independent human. A negotiator. An entrepreneur. I’m not cut out to be a strong, powerful anything. All I want to do right now is curl up on this warm concrete like a cat and drift off to sleep.
Maybe I’ll stay here in this driveway forever. It’s not that uncomfortable. If I don’t file a change of address, the creditors can’t find me here.
“Are you all right?”
The deep, concerned voice startles me, and my body jolts.
My cheeks warm with embarrassment. Covering my eyes with one hand, I tilt my head back and regard Alaric Steele.
As expected, his expression is screwed up in concern.
Rightfully so.
There’s a woman having a horizontal meltdown smack in the middle of his driveway.
His hair is less tidy than it was earlier—like maybe he’s been running his hands through it. Those deep, soulful eyes are riddled with trepidation, which I assume is inspired by me, and that only makes my shame spiral wind tighter.
I don’t want him to worry about me. I never want anyone to have to be concerned with me in any way. I’m a lot—that’s a well-established fact. I’ve got twenty-six years of lived experience, a cordial but superficial relationship with my parents, and several short-lived jobs on my resume to prove it.
The truth of my idiosyncrasies reflects back at me in the concerned scowl of this handsome, reasonable man, and damn if that doesn’t push my self-consciousness to the limits.
Sighing, I slip my mask back into place, prepared to tell him what he wants to hear.
That I’m fine.
I’m not.
That I’ll be going now.
To where, I have no idea.
He should forget I was ever here.
I’m not his problem, thankfully, and given the circumstances, he’ll never have to be concerned with me again.
Pressing my lips together, I allow myself to drink him in for a few more seconds.
He’s inaccessibly beautiful, if that’s a thing. This man belongs in a high-end fashion ad or on a runway in Paris. If I typed “ideal male” into my web browser and disregarded all the AI slop, I’m certain I’d find pages upon pages of search results for Alaric Steele.
Between the definition in his forearms and the way his fitted polo is tucked into his tight slacks, he’s a visual feast for my squinty, watering eyes.
He still looks concerned, but that doesn’t make him any less attractive.
I work my way from his feet to his face, appreciating every inch. He really does have exceptional hair.
“Do you use a deep conditioner?” The words are out before my hand makes it to my mouth to stop them.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
My filter is nonexistent when I’m stressed like this.
Brows arched, he slowly drops into a squat, the move controlled and measured. With his elbows resting on his knees, he relaxes his wrists, making his hands hang loose between his thighs, giving me the perfect view of those damn veins again.
“Did you fall?” he asks. “Any chance you hit your head?”
I frown. This man’s got the concerned dad routine down; I’ll give him that.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” He’s holding up three fingers. Three deliciously long, thick fingers. Without my permission, my attention zeroes in on them and my tongue darts out, wetting my lips.
With a harsh breath in, I squeeze my eyes closed. Holy shit, I’m a mess. What is with my lack of discretion today?
“I’m not hurt,” I assure him, forcing the surprisingly steady words out.
Not physically, at least.
“I didn’t hit my head,” I say. “And I didn’t fall. I just needed to regroup.”
Disbelief dances behind those rich, bottomless eyes. “Your idea of regrouping involves lying on the ground?”
I shrug, the move causing the warm concrete to scratch my shoulder blades through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. Fighting a wince, I say, “The ground is great for regrouping. Or for when you need to change your perspective. Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He shifts, his form casting a long shadow over my body and providing temporary respite from the blinding sun.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to stand and walk away. Or yell at me to leave.
Instead, he takes a knee, then lowers to the driveway beside me.
He grunts a little as he curls down and lies flat on his back.
Wait.
What?
Lips pursed and my mind swimming in a cloudy haze of confusion, I shield my eyes again and turn my head, taking in his profile from this angle.
He turns, like he can sense my scrutiny, and meets my gaze. Then he offers a defensive shrug, muttering, “You said I should try it.”
I stifle a laugh, both embarrassed by my meltdown and amused by his decision to join me.
I should be more than just embarrassed. I should be mortified. This serious, put-together man is lying on his driveway in the middle of the day because of me. But honestly, I’m all out of humiliation.
We coexist for a few beats, my heart hammering so loudly in my chest I worry he can hear it.
Breaking the silence, he finally asks, “What now?”
This time, I do let out a little laugh.
What now? Is he actually asking for instructions on how to crash out?
“Um, this is kind of it,” I admit. “Although sometimes it helps if I air my grievances.”
Today is not one of those days, though. No way will I broadcast the grudges and frustrations I’m holding on to where Luca is concerned. One, because it’d be weird to tattle on a grown man to his father, and two, because I really don’t need to spiral any more than I already am.
Alaric hums quietly. The pensive, patient sound catches me off guard.
At best, I expected annoyance from him. It would make more sense for him to rant about how my fucked-up life isn’t his problem.
Luca could never stand when I did something he deemed distracting or uncouth.
His nickname for me was Queenie, a variant of drama queen.
He loathed this side of me. That should have been my first red flag, because this unmasked version is as real as it gets.
With a sigh, he murmurs, “I might be fucking this up before I even have a shot at getting started.”
I tense, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip. Is he talking about me? Luca? Or—
“Am I just the cleanup crew? The compassionate leader with the squeaky-clean reputation they’ve hired to course correct before a more seasoned team principal swoops in and takes over?”
Ah. He’s talking about work. Airing his grievances as I suggested. I exhale slowly to calm my nerves. This, I can handle.
“I want to help,” he continues. “To make an impact. I want the name Granata to return to its former glory and I want to restore its once strong reputation on the grid. But I also want to win.”
He heaves out a heavy sigh, his chest deflating.
I stay quiet in case he isn’t finished.
Granata has been around since the inception of F1 racing.
There was a lot of talk this fall about a sex scandal of sorts involving the man who previously held his position.
Apparently, it had been going on for years, and though it sounds like a lot of people were involved, it wasn’t until the media caught wind of the story that action was taken.
Alaric’s assessment is spot-on. Stepping in like this must be a huge undertaking.
“I can’t even get the new reputation assessment positions filled,” he grumbles.
“No one worth their salt wants to work for us. This is an uphill battle that could very well result in an avalanche. Earning this title has been my dream for so long. But I never expected to start out having to clean up a giant mess, and I’m worried I’ll let everyone down. Including myself.”
“You won’t,” I say automatically.
He forces out a huff. “You don’t know that. No one does.”
I swallow down the trepidation in my throat, considering my next words more carefully.
“I don’t know for sure,” I hedge, “but by the way you talk about the team, it’s obvious that you care.
Deeply.” Shielding my eyes again, I turn his way.
“It’s rare for people to genuinely care.
It’s special, honestly. It might take time, but people who want to see the truth will see it in everything you do. ”
“And those who don’t?” he presses.
I shift and refocus on the sky, anxiety worming its way through me. Have I said too much or made assumptions when it wasn’t my place? I don’t know.
A breath passes. Then another. The silence urges me to answer.
“Fuck ’em,” I declare, the words loaded with sass and a sense of bravado I haven’t possessed in quite a while.